Lydia
by feistsgirl
Summary: With a medieval setting, Stiles, soon to be king of some anonymous throne has become obsessed with the legend surrounding a girl, the betrothed of his ancestor centuries before, who disappeared suddenly. As his obsession grows, his grip on reality seems to dissipate until the evening of his coronation.


The Library was in complete disarray. Books framed Stile's languid body, the floor no longer visible. Some over-turned, others piled high. Two in his lap and a third in his hands. His long fingers ran over the pages, following the words with the same rapidity as his blue eyes. With Delicacy and relish.

He painted a shy character, to those who did not know him well. For he was a paradox of sorts. Knowledge was his realm but mischief. Mischief was his calling. He sought out trouble, was drawn to it, and often times ruled by it. He was bound by it, like a werewolf was governed by the moon.

Downstairs guests milled the magnificent hall. Stiles had greeted each family personally as they arrived for his Coronation in two day's time. The McCalls, The Hales, The Argents. Carriages could be heard pulling away, having safely delivered their precious cargo. The rhythmic pounding of the horses hooves like a steady heartbeat.

* * *

He rested his back against the desk now, his eyes were beginning to grow heavy. When was the last time he had slept? He massaged his head, the book slipping from his hands. It fell open to the portrait of a beautiful girl. Her complexion was milk and honey, her eyes were jewels that glinted brighter and deeper than the ocean, but it was her hair that struck him. It was like sunset, this magical occurrence of reds and oranges come together to form something that looked like strawberries. Lydia Martin.

She had found a place in the Stilinski archives at the tender age of 18. The same age Stiles was now. The Martins had a close alliance with the Stilinskis, and Lydia was betrothed to his great great Grandfather, then King, some hundred years before. But the day before the wedding she vanished. No trace of her was ever seen or heard of again. Her family were shamed and hardened, the Stilinskis insulted and enraged. No Martin had ever married into the Stilinski family again, ties had been broken and re-forged but the slight was never forgotten. Entries had been written about her, detailing not only her mysterious disappearance but descriptions of a very intriguing and intelligent woman. She was said to have possessed a truly sly wit, boasting a fine education that girls were rarely treated to. She spoke several languages fluently, was said to be avidly learned in the sciences, histories and mathematics. Stiles eyes closed as his mind circled her. S_he must have been something._

_Stiles looked down at himself, he was attired in the finest clothes he had ever seen. He bore a fur cloak around his shoulders, fastened with gold and silver, jewels and gems. It weighed heavily on him, and he did not care for it. His hands reached up to remove it and his gaze was met with a disapproving look from his father. A king must not fidget. The room seemed half a blur, the rows of people, noble families, friends of his and enemies all arranged themselves into a mess of colour, occasionally he could focus on a pair of eyes looking up at him, but then they were gone. Someone was speaking, but they were far away. A sceptre was handed to him, he felt it's chill. A crown was placed on his head and he was gently guided to a throne. He sat, he tried to take in the grandeur of the church; the festoons, the wreaths, but it seemed that all the light had gone, the sun descended and the candles blew out. The room was smoky darkness and no-one spoke. From the corner of his eye he noticed sharp movement and followed it. A blazing red, like a flame._

_There it was again_

_Weaving itself in and out of the room, a flash of red, billowing and glorious. He stood, but strong hands pushed him back down. _

_No._

_He had to go. He had to follow. _

_He stood once more, he tried to toss the sceptre but it seemed fused in his unwilling grip. He was running but his footfalls were slow, he tried to rip the cape from his shoulders, it too would not comply. The crown held steady on his head._

_He was determined to run, but now others joined him at his side, desperately trying to drag him back where he did not want to be. He was shouting as the blur of faces and bodies converged around him. And then he saw her. Her whole form. That beautiful, porcelain face, framed by fiery red locks that danced around her body. Her eyes of sapphire caught his for the longest time, and it was as though she understood him, she felt pity for his struggle and she spurned him on. Her face was the last he saw as he was enveloped entirely, swallowed whole by a life that he did not want to live. _

_He breathed out her name, Lydia._

* * *

Footsteps approached the doors, but he did not stir. The towers of books around him toppled, collapsed onto him, and he groaned into waking. His eyes opened to the sight of another storm of books coming his way, he threw himself sideways in alarm.

"Your highness. Your people await," Scott executed a mocking bow to complement his teasing words.

Stiles groaned. "You can't throw books at a King."

He took another volume to the head, and laughing, hurled a book back at his friend. A storm ensued. They were wrestling on the floor when two manservants interrupted in a flurry.

"Highness," They bowed. "Please excuse the interruption but you really must dress."

Stiles tripped over Scott as he struggled to stand.

"Dress for what?"

Scott laughed, but Stiles continued to look confused.

"Did I sleep until dinner again?"

The servants cleared their throats. "No, Highness. The coronation…"

"Oh, do I need to have a final fitting or something?"

"The coronation, Stiles. Don't tell me you forgot it's today."

Stiles studied his friend for a moment, then longer. He looked to the servants and back again. Then his mind began to wander. His coronation hadn't been for two days this morning.

He sat in the bathtub, running soapy water over his shoulders. His hair clung to his skull and although the water was hot, he shivered.

Scott paced the floor beside him.

"So what you're saying is, you have no memory of the past two days."

"And?" Stiles prompted.

"And," Scott continued. "You think you have been dreaming the entire time?"

Stiles nodded, studying his reflection in the water. His fist hit the surface, sending water all over the room.

"How else do you explain me having no memory since the day before last?"

"Maybe because you have been dreading today all year and you starting blocking it all out?" Scott slipped a little on the water, hoping it would make Stiles smile. But his best friend only looked frightened. A servant appeared to wrap him in a robe. For a long time he just stood, staring blankly into space and Scott wondered what thoughts were running through that head of his. Then he had an idea.

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

Stiles looked over to his friend, his expression conveying immediately that this was not one of his pranks.

"So the last thing you remember is going into the library after meeting all of the noble families, who arrived two days ago for your coronation _today._"

Stiles nodded. He waved the servants away who were rushing about to dress him.

"But, Highness, you must dress."

"He will," Scott said helpfully. "Just a minute, please."

They exited the room and Scott ran a hand through his dark locks. He was becoming concerned for his friend. Stiles pulled the robe tightly around his body as though he were cold. "That's the last thing I remember," He confirmed. "I was reading and then, it's all blank until you came into the library."

"What were you dreaming about?"

Stiles walked over to the window. "You're going to think I'm being weird. Weird even for me."

Scott came to stand beside him, placing an amicable arm on his shoulder. "Weirder than my family being werewolves?"

Stiles finally smiled then. A flash of mischief blazed in his eyes.

"I'll take your werewolves, and give you ghosts."

"Ghosts?" Scott said, his voice now hushed but incredulous.

"That or vampires."

"You're right. You're being weird."

Stiles pulled his friend back around to face him. "Just think about it, Lydia Martin disappears the day before she is supposed to marry my great great grandfather over a hundred years ago…"

"Lydia Martin?"  
"Yes, so Lydia vanishes and starts showing up in my dreams a few months ago."

"You've been reading about her for months. Of course you have been dreaming about her. What's so strange about that?"

"Scott, I was dreaming about her before I had even seen a portrait of her. I only found her portrait…"

Scott waited.

Stiles eyes grew wide. "I only found the portrait of her two days ago."

"Okay, stop. What does any of this have to do with ghosts and vampires?"

Stiles appeared to be undergoing an epiphany, his mind whirring. "Aren't you getting any of this? How could I know what Lydia looked like if I had never seen her before? How could I dream about her so vividly?"

Stiles gripped Scott's shoulders and shook him. "She's alive and she's in my head, Scott!"

"…So she's a vampire…ghost?"

He burst into laughter as Stiles face shifted into a frown. "I don't know what she is, I mean, if she can get into my dreams that some kind of mind manipulation - what can do _that_?"

"Is that a serious question?" Scott asked.

"You said it yourself, your family carries a bloodline of werewolves. Why can't Lydia be some sort of supernatural creature?"

"Because, Stiles. Lydia was a girl who was supposed to marry your ancestor and be Queen. Instead she disappeared, probably died not long after and that was the end of it."

"No, she's here. She's alive and she is trying to get a message to me."

"A message?"

"Yeah." Stiles opened the door and the two servants came flying in, relieved to dress him. He was transformed, excited, as the two servants began shoving him frantically into his ceremonial attire.

"What message, Stiles?" Scott cried, throwing his arms up.

"I have no idea," he replied.

* * *

The entire coronation passed in a sort of blur, not unlike to his dream. The sceptre felt cold as it was pressed to his palm, and he found himself sweating underneath his robes. He had been feeling almost giddy earlier, but now the terror had set in. This was all wrong. He didn't want to be King. He didn't want this life. The world was out there waiting for him, he wasn't made to rule. He was made to explore, discover and learn. And he thought Lydia understood that, or at least the Lydia of his dreams…or as Scott thought, of his hallucinations. He looked on into the faces of those who would come to rely on him, the allies that would treat with him, and the enemies that would take great pleasure in removing him.

Not for the first time, he wished his mother were still alive, and there to guide him. She was the only one who could have reassured him. But illness had taken her from him and his father, and their family remained broken from that day onwards.

The priest was standing before him now, blocking his view of the crowds of people, murmuring, the crown in his hands hovering about Stiles head. The moment it was pressed to his head was the last time he would be allowed to pass days in the library, an end to his pranks, no longer would he be permitted to sneak out of the castle with Scott to explore at all hours of the day and night. All the freedoms he had so perilously enjoyed the moment before the crown was lowered would be wiped away. And who would Stiles be then? What if the crops failed and famine crippled his people? What if he was forced to lead men into war? What if he looked into the glass tomorrow and didn't recognise himself anymore? And he would need a wife. A queen at his side. But he didn't want any of the women at court. He only wanted Lydia.

All of the church was quiet then. The priest's hands trembled a little with age and Stiles felt the air move above him, the crown came down and then she was there. She stood in the light of a window, the sun's rays making her hair gleam so brightly it was almost blinding. Her hand was out, she beckoned him forward. His eyes squinted. Was he dreaming again? He watched those blue eyes flicker with impatience and that delicate arm become frantic in its movement. His eyes found Scott. And that's when he knew he was awake. Scott was staring directly at her, his mouth gaping wide. This time when Stiles stood, no hands grabbed him. When he yanked the cloak from his shoulders, it buckled and fell. The sceptre was thrust into the hands of the startled priest who nearly dropped the crown.

Then he was running, bodies everywhere stood and looked on in shock, people gasped. But each stride he took fell unhindered. She had pulled a cloak over her face by now, but his hand found hers and together they bounded from the church. She moved with unnatural speed and grace, pulling him along with her as though he weighed nothing. And so it must have been, for he had never felt so feather light in all his life.


End file.
